


by candlelight, by the setting sun

by phantomlistener



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Conversations, F/F, First Kiss, post-Season 1, public flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25992193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomlistener/pseuds/phantomlistener
Summary: It's the end-of-term dinner, and Hecate may have made a slight...miscalculation.
Relationships: Hecate Hardbroom/Pippa Pentangle
Comments: 16
Kudos: 94





	by candlelight, by the setting sun

In hindsight, this was perhaps a terrible idea.

The Great Hall is bright with flickering candlelight and adorned with late summer flowers, dahlias and sunflowers bursting out from arrangements of cornflowers and meadowsweet, and without the irrepressible chatter of the girls Hecate feels oddly exposed, used as she is to the camouflage afforded by their excitable voices. But nobody seems to have batted an eyelid at Pippa's presence next to her at the end-of-term meal, presumably assuming her to be Miss Cackle's guest after the obvious antipathy between them at spelling bee earlier that term. And nobody seems to have noticed that Hecate's fingers have brushed hers every time she has passed condiments, cutlery, and drinks, that Hecate's hand has rested warm and daring against Pippa's thigh beneath the table, or that Pippa's stockinged foot is currently pressed to the curve of Hecate's lower calf.

Her dinner sits half-eaten, and she doesn't trust herself to sip the water.

She can see Ada twinkling at her from the across the table. She's the only person there who knows her intimately enough to realise the truth, but for once she doesn't mind the knowing scrutiny, concentrates on the barely-there slide of Pippa's foot against her calf, more intimate than a kiss. The sensation burns through three layers of clothing right down to her skin, and it feels as shocking as if Pippa's fingers were stroking velvet-soft against her bare skin. A wintry chill runs blazing hot down her spine.

Pippa turns from her conversation and meets her eyes, raises an amused eyebrow, and Hecate is suddenly and uncomfortably afraid that everything she's feeling must be painted bold and clear on her face.

“I- please, excuse me,” she says, more to the floor than to anyone in particular, and hurries from the room.

She's halfway to her bedroom when Pippa appears in front of her with barely a sound as if she's some sort of phantom, rose-tinted. The weak evening sunshine filters through ancient window panes and falls in narrow slants across the length of Pippa's body, leaves her face shadowed and pastel-soft, and Hecate can barely look at her for fear of never being able to look elsewhere ever again.

“I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” Pippa says, staring up at her with worried eyes. “If you'd rather I went-”

“ _No_.” The vehemence of her own response catches her by surprise and she takes an unintended step forward, stops herself before she reaches for Pippa's hand. She collects herself. “That is...I had no objections.”

Pippa frowns. “That's not what it looked like.”

“I- Pippa, I-” But her throat closes treacherously around words she barely has the strength to think, and all she can do is stare at the floor in helpless frustration. Panic bubbles in her chest – surely Pippa will think she is foolish, childish, decades older and yet somehow still an awkward fifteen year old without the strength to explain what she wants, what she doesn't want. Surely Pippa will _laugh_ -

“Hecate.”

She looks up.

Pippa is a creature of sunlight, all wreathed in a rosy warmth, and she isn't laughing at all. She stands in the dying light with an unguarded smile on her lips and sudden realisation in her eyes. “There isn't a wrong answer,” she says gently.

She must look confused because Pippa smiles, takes a deep breath that Hecate knows from experience hides genuine nervousness, and adds, “Whatever _this_ is – we go as slow as you want, Hecate. I just got a little...carried away, just now, and I'm sorry.”

A lock of hair has fallen out of place, hangs sullen gold and rebellious where it ought to curl perfectly up beneath a sparkling pink clip, and Hecate reaches for it before she can stop herself, tucks it neatly behind her ear. Pippa's hair feels softer than silk against her skin, her fingertips tingle with a combination of magic and daring, and Pippa's watching her, caught between inhale and exhale, perfectly poised and motionless. She lets her fingers brush lightly against Pippa's cheek, sees the shiver she tries to hide.

“I would very much like,” she says, her voice rough with longing, and this time when she can't find the words it feels less like failure and more like a whole new language, its lexicon full of half-words and silences.

Pippa's smile sparkles in response: “Please.”

And in the end it's the easiest thing in the world to kiss her, as if all the visits, quiet confessions, and teasing touches have always been leading to this: to Pippa sunset-soft and warm in her arms. She kisses her and years of longing and regret wash away against her skin. It's too much, and it's not enough, and there's an electric current running through her body, hot and fluid, sparking into fire where Pippa's lips are pressed against hers.

It's Pippa who pulls away first, and they stare at each other, breathless.

“Well,” says Pippa. Her cheeks are pink, the elegant hairstyle she had adopted for dinner just slightly dishevelled, and for all that Hecate's first instinct is to run, she finds she cannot look away. If there is the slightest hint of regret, of disappointment, in Pippa's eyes, she will see it. She will know.

But then Pippa is laughing, full of disbelief and delight, and there's such tenderness in her eyes that Hecate cannot help but smile herself. “Come back to dinner,” she says softly.

“Are you sure?” Her voice is sincere, her face earnest in the almost-darkness. “Earlier, I thought-”

Hecate shakes her head. “It wasn't about you. I simply have no desire to be... _gossip_.” She spits the last word as if it's poison to be excised.

Pippa considers her carefully. “I'm the headmistress of a very prominent witching academy,” she says, reaching for her hand. “And you are deputy headmistress of another. There _will_ be gossip, you know.”

“Eventually,” Hecate allows. “But not yet.”

“Not yet.”

Downstairs the dinner is still going on, the candlelight holding off the dark as the summer evening draws in, the flowers in the hall bringing the richness of Lughnasadh into the academy. It's a ritual older than Hecate's presence at Cackle's, and she has never once missed it.

She makes her decision.

“If we return now, we should be in time for dessert. Ada usually brings out the plum wine. It would be a shame to miss it.”

Pippa pats at her hair, casts a silent spell that restores her appearance to the flawless glamour of earlier. “I'd be delighted.”

“And then perhaps you could...stay?”

Her expression melts into pure, blinding affection. “Perhaps I could,” she says, "discreetly," and takes her arm to return the dining hall.


End file.
